Respect
by Blood.Stained.Fingers
Summary: Final battle aftermath. How do you dispose of the Dark Lord's body? Voldemort didn't deserve anything from him but this was about respect. The final resting place of the last heir of Slytherin was dignified, though undeservedly. It's not about being better than Voldemort. It's just about not being like him. It's about respect.


**Disclaimer – I do not own Harry Potter**

**A/N- Please ignore any spelling mistakes. This one has tired me out and given me trouble. It's been worse than a toddler at points. It's a bit blocky at first but does pick up.**

**Also, I stole a line from Doctor Who, I'm sure some of you will notice. It just felt right ;)**

**Respect**

Harry collects the resurrection stone that night.

He woke to the jarring thought of _what if_ someone found it, years from now and started to search for the rest of the Hallows?

_What if?_

It had to end and it had to end now, this night.

He slipped out of his bed silently; padding over to the door passed the other's sleeping in their dorm for the first time in months.

He emerged from Gryffindor tower to complete silence.

Harry would have thought that the castle would have still be alive with laughter and partying, even this late at night, but after the initial incoherent joy and relief had worn off, he suspected the families had left to their homes to grieve their lost ones.

Holding his lit wand aloft as he walked silently down the grand staircase, his bare feet missing many of the sharp stones that lay on the once fabulous stairs.

The moon was large and bright in the sky and it peered at Harry over the broken walls and through the shattered windows, illuminating the deserted dead faces, reflecting the moonlight and their bodies laid out as though they were only sleeping.

They all had a grey pallor after so many hours and Harry would have thought them statues had a sharp and chilling breeze not rushed through the open corridor, ruffling their hair and robes.

Harry looked at them as he walked past and was both relieved and ashamed to not know most of them personally.

He found the silence eerie in the aftermath of the screaming and crying and the pure destruction that had been happening only a few hours ago.

He found himself breathing out a sigh of relief as he stepped out of the large doors and found himself outside the castle. Though the courtyard was a mass of crumbled and broken stone with dead creatures and blood everywhere, Harry found it less haunted than the castle, warmer even.

He picked his way through the waste-land and headed towards the forest, which hadn't looked more daunting in all his life. He knew of the dangers lurking between the trunks of the trees, the creatures scrambling back to their hideaways and how easy it would be for an enemy to hide but he felt oddly fearless and detached.

It would be okay, for some reason he was sure.

Was it because he was tired? Or was it because he didn't fear dying anymore? That he didn't feel he should have lived when so many had died?

His mind darted back to Snape in the Shrieking Shack, crumbled in on himself, bloodless and filled with the venom he had spewed in life. Harry realised he hadn't told anyone and wondered if Ron or Hermione had…

Harry navigated the forest as though he knew every leaf and every branch - like he knew the exact path to the stone.

He met no creature on his trek, the dementors had clearly fled when Voldemort had died and the forest seemed to be dead around the sudden upheaval. There were no owls, no scurrying around in the undergrowth. Harry didn't mind as much as he felt he should and kept his eyes on the ground, scanning the dusty forest floor.

He found the stone partially under some bushes as though it had called to him, he thumbed the cold stone in his palm and thought of who to call back – just to test it.

It looked like an ordinary stone in the night, just the same as all the others scattered amongst the tree roots. He rolled it between his fingers, nails tracing the giant crack down the middle.

And suddenly he knew. He just knew that it was the right one.

His grasped the stone with all his strength, enjoying how the stone felt pressing against his bones. It grounded him in this strange numbness he was feeling.

He knew what he had to do. In this haze he had clarity, he knew it more than ever.

Harry turned back to the castle, it didn't look like Hogwarts, it was full of dark broken windows and crumbling towers. It wasn't home right now, like a mangled limb, it didn't resemble something he knew, not until it was healed.

Harry's search for Voldemort's corpse ended very quickly, though his body had been moved out of the way into a small alcove, so not to intrude on the _victims_ of war. Listlessly the breeze pulled at the heavy black robe Voldemort had been wearing.

Voldemort lay there, still and cold, covered in spit from cowards who had been too scared to do anything when he was alive.

The body had to be disposed of, but it had to be done right, done Harry's way.

It's not about being like Dumbledore.

It's not about being better than Voldemort.

It's just about not being like _him._ It's about _respect._

At the end of the day, he would always hate Voldemort but he would always see the abused child underneath.

It didn't mean he sympathised with him, pitied him or anything like that but in the end, he was just a person.

A person who would have had his body dragged through the streets and cut up and who knows what else and Harry would _love _to do that to Voldemort too.

That's what Voldemort would do. It would suit his image.

But he is not Voldemort.

Dumbledore would preach about forgiveness, possibly make a big deal for who Voldemort had been, for 'Tom Riddle' who was just as much as a victim of Voldemort as the rest.

That's what Dumbledore would do. It would suit his image.

But he is not Dumbledore.

He does not want to offer Voldemort respect, or even let the public have their opinion. It's not their business, it never was.

He looked at the blank red eyes, almost black from the dilated pupil. Skin which looked pale before now held a blue tinge to it, the lipless mouth still stretched around his own shock.

Harry wanted to bury it all, Voldemort and the hallows, in one big hole in the ground and never look back but he knew he couldn't do that. He may be sick of all the pain and death of war, perhaps the entirety of his generation was, but sooner or later someone would come along, maybe just curious or more likely wanting trouble, and unearth it all.

Start it all again. He couldn't give up at the finish line.

So how did he get rid of it all?!

_Make it die._

Harry was not stupid enough to believe war would never happen again. It could happen in his life time still but the British wizarding world was too ragged and too tired to fight again anytime soon.

How many wizards had been lost to this damned war?

Who says there will even be a generation of wizards to fight for in the future?

How many families had been lost to it all?

…but ultimately he could go on and on about this all in his head all he liked, it wasn't going to change a damned thing.

He looked at the corpse again, eyes locked with one another and both still and rigid.

The wind howled through the destroyed bricks, causing Voldemort's robes to flutter and Harry to shiver, adjusting his grip on the wand he held in his perspiring hand. He shifted his grip on it.

How to move the body? He didn't want to float it away, scared that the wind and height might just give Harry a view that would haunt him for a life time.

He couldn't bury Voldemort anywhere – that was too risky no matter the name Harry buried him under. He couldn't be returned to a muggle's graveyard, though spitefully Harry thought of burying him with his father for a few delicious moments.

Harry was rather stuck, he looked around the ruined building helplessly and Harry realised that his gut was churning nervously.

Harry didn't want to take Voldemort away from Hogwarts. Not deep down below the hurt, pain and anger.

Harry knew that Voldemort had cherished Hogwarts in a way that he had nothing else…because Harry did too. And through Harry's spite he knew that Voldemort deserved to rest in a place that was close to him.

Perhaps not deserve, Voldemort didn't deserve anything from him, but Harry knew that he ought to do it. Harry couldn't be as cruel as Voldemort; he had to be the bigger man.

Still the Voldemort couldn't be buried here. There had to be nothing substantial left of him, but Harry had to have something to lay to rest.

He looked at the body. There were no horcruxes left. Nothing to tie Voldemort to the world. Nothing to bring him back.

Ashes would be okay.

Harry conjured an urn, it was heavy pottery and clumsy on Harry's part due to tiredness, but it was strong and sturdy and would hold the Dark Lord's ashes with plenty of room to spare.

His voice was croaky and raw as he spoke the incantation to make the body turn to ash and he watched in silence as all of Voldemort crumbled into grey before floating into the open urn.

All that was left was his wand. Bone white and painful to look at.

Harry didn't want to touch it but Harry thought Voldemort should have his wand with him, it felt rather pointless to go to this level of care if he was going to discard the man's wand. He turned that to ash too and added it to the urn before he put the lid on it and made sure to seal it with the strongest spell he knew.

Harry sat and stared at it before he picked it up. He held the urn close to his chest for a moment, as though suddenly someone many appear to take it away from him, ruin his plan.

He knew for certain where he was going to put it now. It was as clear as day now, it made perfect sense.

He got to his feet quickly and headed up to the second floor.

It was when he got to the girl's bathroom that he wondered if he could still speak parseltongue.

The taps were dull in the middle of the night, and Harry found his tired mind struggling to remember which tap was the one with the snake engraved on it.

"Hello." He called out uncertainly, letting it echo throughout the bathroom and desperately thinking of snakes, but then he found himself flushing in embarrassment as he heard his perfect English echo back in the deserted bathroom. Parseltongue was too quiet to echo.

The problem he figured was that parseltongue had always sounded English to his mind; he couldn't decipher what it sounded like to a normal person.

Then he remembered Ron and his attempt, and tried to make a similar sound.

It sounded like he was trying to bring up phlegm but there was a groaning as the sinks started to move until the giant pipe underneath was revealed. Harry suddenly felt nervous and weary of being near the giant chasm; he could feel the cool air drifting up from it, the slight smell of rot curdling in his nose.

What if he couldn't get back out?

He swallowed. Hard. Sneered at his sudden cowardice and jumped, gritting his teeth at the feeling of dirt smearing up his claves as he slid down the grimy walls.

He tumbled out into the piles of bones with as much grace as he had when he was in second year, thumping loudly onto the sharp and prickly rodent remains as he clutched Voldemort's urn with all his might, cushioning it with his body as he rolled.

Achingly, he moaned as he got to his feet, muscles now complaining in a way they hadn't in months. He stumbled forwards, the soles of his feet searing in pain with every step. Harry wondered why he had forgone shoes. He quickly glanced at his feet, wincing at the bloody and dirty mess they had become on his midnight rendezvous.

Harry hobbled on, his feet aching and his muscles roaring at him in pain but he carried on, picking his way through rock and bone and the continuous grey that gave the Chamber of Secrets none of the glory that its name suggested.

The round chamber door was still open, and Harry couldn't tell if it had been like that for the past five years or if Ron and Hermione had left it like that from earlier.

He flinched at the cold from the iron railings as he climbed down but made quick work of it, turning to face the great statue that had lost none of its imposing nature from before.

He soon realised his bare feet were even more of a problem here when the wet concrete and damp chilled his toes, numbed his cuts and creeped up his pyjama bottoms. He marched forward to the dead Basilisk determinedly, pausing before the dark, greenish water. He winced in pre-emption before striding into the dirty pool, hissing at the cold and hoping it didn't go too deep.

In the end, it went up to his waist but the cold still seeped up his neck with terrible fingers and goosebumps spread across his arms.

The mouth of Slytherin had never been shut since the Basilisk had never returned to it. Harry finally loosened his hold on Voldemort's urn and with nimble and quick fingers set it down in the mouth of the great statue. His fingers lingered for a littler, the warmth of his own body lingering on the pottery, before he snatched back his fingers.

It was very much time to let go. Shut this chapter of his life away.

He looked at the urn hard for a moment, unforgiving and hated how the pot looked so beguiling and innocent. Finally he stepped back.

The final resting place of the last heir of Slytherin.

It felt appropriate. It felt dignified, though undeservedly, for Voldemort to remain with his ancestor, deep within the chamber.

Never to be opened again and never to be found.

Voldemort had been the last true parselmouth and Harry had only been a pseudo one. There would be no one else to reopen the chamber once Harry closed it and he rather doubted that Voldemort had any children.

This was truly it. All other lines from the founders had died out. And at last, though it fought tirelessly, so had Slytherin's.

Harry could no longer command the mouth to close but was quite glad that with only a slight pressure on the underside of the statues mouth, it slowly but effortlessly closed hiding the urn from sight.

Harry stepped back at few paces, the water sloshing around loudly. He turned the stone thrice in his hand, _just one last time_, and saw out of the corner of his eye who had come.

Dumbledore smiled at him, and Harry thought he had never seen the man so proud, even when he had sacrificed himself. The old man took off his hat before bowing to him, his ghostly beard dipping into the water.

Harry found the behaviour odd but jerkily returned the bow but Dumbledore's raised hand stopped him midway, "No, my boy, no. Don't bow to me." He smiled, old and worn with his bright blue eyes that death couldn't take away from him. They were once again filled with tears. "Great men are forged in fire. It is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame."

Harry started, rather uncomprehending to whom the lesser man was as Dumbledore inclined his head once again and faded.

Harry shifted in the water, shook himself free from his daze and started walking back to the edge. Dumbledore's comment lingered for a mere moment but in a typical Harry like fashion, he discarded it.

It wasn't about him.

Not anymore.

This had been about _respect._

It was over now. He wouldn't be coming back. No one would.

He let the stone slip from between his fingers and fall into the murky water around him.

**A/N – Please review?**

**I've had the bones of this for a long time and for some reason today I had to finish it.**

**I know some people will be wondering why Harry went to such trouble but in the end, I always felt that it seemed a fitting end for Voldemort to do it this way and I think it's a Harry thing to do.**

**Let me know what you think.**


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